


Closing Time in the Alehouse of the Gods

by PartlyCloudySkies



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Alcohol, Bar Room Brawl, Cool, I hate it and myself, I think it is, Is this my first crackship, Multi, No proofreading no regrets only post post post, Think I'll write Santa Claus and Jormungandr dating oh look Goldie took over my entire story whoops, This is the longest I've ever speculated on Scrooge's relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:53:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27821809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PartlyCloudySkies/pseuds/PartlyCloudySkies
Summary: Goldie isn't really here to tend the bar, it's just another job and another score. But even legendary figures of myth needs a sympathetic ear to listen to their woes.
Relationships: Santa Claus/Jormungandr, Scrooge McDuck/"Glittering" Goldie O'Gilt
Comments: 11
Kudos: 30





	Closing Time in the Alehouse of the Gods

“Hey baby, you wanna attain godhood? I know how we can make it happen.”

Goldie froze in the middle of reaching for a bottle on one of the higher shelves and sighed. When she turned, the bottle in hand, it was with a placid smile designed to appear gracious while offering nothing else. The carefully crafted hostess smile, which she had few occasions to use.

Her solicitor was a grubby little guy swaddled in strips of linen who either tumbled out of a Halloween haunted house or was a genuine mummified god-king of some ancient civilization, bound to immortal life through rituals and magic and getting her very nice white marble bar with gold inlays dirty as he attempted to drape himself alluringly across its cool surface.

And while time could be funny here in this particular place, Halloween was still long gone.

“Tempting,” she said. “I always said to myself that I’d like to give godhood a shot one day.”

The dusty mummy smiled, his jaw nearly crumbling with the effort and he leaned over the bar towards her, nearly upending his drink. Something foul and green. Absinthe, Goldie recalled. It surged over his glass onto the bar and the loose end of one of his dry bandages, which quickly soaked it up, turning dark and soggy. His drink nearly stained Goldie’s own clothes, a very tidy black bartender’s vest worn over a white dress tuxedo shirt and black bowtie. The most fundamental rule of any con, after all, was looking the part.

She took a deft step backwards before any of her clothes could be ruined. “But pal, it’s not gonna be with your help,” she said. 

In a fluid motion she brought up a kitchen light from under the bar, flicked on the flame and brought it down on the spilled absinthe. A phantom blue fire flashed into existence and ate at the spilled liquid. Then it reached the mummy’s dry bandages and it turned orange and angry. He reeled back, beating at the fire as it traveled up his arm and roaring indignantly, he sprang out of his stool.

“Bathroom’s down the hall to your right!” Goldie called out as he ran off. There were scattered cheers and jeers, the kind of laughter that comes from people who are the right kind of inebriated and have just witnessed someone else’s misfortune. There was even some applause which Goldie, keenly aware of the importance of putting on a show, bowed to.

Here in this place, mortal injury was something to shrug off like a nudge in the elbow. If you couldn’t appreciate a person on fire, you were in the wrong place. There was a table full of just such folk in the corner, though the demon wings marked them out as conflagrating in a professional capacity.

Further down the bar, a huddle of vikings had raised their mead horns to her in cheers. Goldie winked at them before looking down at the mess her departed customer had left. A few stray drops of absinthe the fire had missed and a discarded crumbling bandage, dust and ash streaked the bar.

“Hey, Bjorn,” she called out to the vikings. As far as she knew, none of them were named Bjorn, but it got their attention. She quickly produced another bottle along with a shot glass. She cut a lime wedge from a nearby basin, used it to rim the glass and put it upside down over the bandage. Gray dust clung to the rim. Then she poured the drink and slid it down the bar with a casual flick of her wrist. The largest of the vikings, hulking, layered in armor and furs incongruous to the sleek, white bar, caught it in one hand.

“Aquavit, on the house,” she said. “Rimmed with the ash of kings.”

The viking sniffed at the drink.

“ _Skål_ ,” Goldie said.

“ _Skål!_ ,” the Viking replied, and downed the drink to much hooting and hollering from the others.

Vikings. Goldie turned to her mess.

Back in the old days, she would use some rags and sawdust to clear up a mess like this. But this wasn’t the old days. There was a satin rope hanging over the sink. Goldie pulled on it and there was a chime from some unseen bell and something… happened. If she attempted to look at the mess in need of cleaning, her eyes would slide away like butter on a hot skillet.

And then there would be a second chime and the bar looked as if it had never been set on fire or had a crappy little mummy on it.

This place was weird.

But it needed to be weird. It served a highly specific clientele.

Everyone needs a place to unwind. Everyone. Even the immortals, the deities, the demigods or at the least, the very, very long-lived. And it was hard to find that kind of comfort in the mortal world. Immortals needed a sense of permanence. A rock in the battering sea of constant, tumultuous change that was the world. A certain… serenity. So the immortals had themselves a gaudy bar accessible only to those who knew about it. Not even mystically accessible, you just had to know where it was. Today it would be a penthouse space in New Stork City. Tomorrow a canal side bistro in Vihenna. Nobody ever accused the gods of having subtlety.

Frankly Goldie couldn’t figure why they bothered. It looked like a tasteless TV version of the afterlife and most of the gods who came here frankly did not live up to the decor. Most of them wore togas or wolfskins or nothing much at all. Sure, there was value in cutting loose but there was something to be said about having some class. They could have stayed in their… wherevers, but when you’re immortal you’ve got time to develop a reputation and the people around you tend to know everything that you’re about. A neutral place where gods could mix and mingle outside their pantheons was probably a good idea, but did it have to look so tacky?

The places Goldie went to for the sake of a good score.

It was shaping up to be a slow night. She only had to have Zeus thrown out twice, the last time involved Storkules coming over to carry him out. Zeus would almost certainly come back. It takes Storkules and Selene _both_ to get him to finally call it a night. In the meantime there was a gaggle of ghosts lurking around the piano singing sad songs. The crew of the Flying Dutchman were about ready to hit the high seas. There were the vikings and they were casting eyes on the entrance as if waiting for someone. The tooth fairy brooded silently to herself in a booth. 

And sitting furtively at a table, looking pale and gaunt under the too bright light, were a gaggle of gaunt ganders in nondescript suits and pointy little beards and mustaches. Alchemists. Esoteric scholars from Edwardian England who had blundered into the secret of immortality more by luck than any actual skill and were now dragged mercilessly through time while eternally addicted to the mixtures and potions that kept them alive. Never quite able to recreate the formula that sustained them, but never failing bad enough to keel over altogether. Goldie didn’t know whether to pity them or… no, no. She definitely pitied them.

And she also kept a close eye on a particular parcel they had brought with them.

All she needed was to be patient. And Goldie could be very, very patient. She made a show of turning away, casual, nonchalant. She focused on cleaning a glass, rubbing a white rag over the surface till it shined.

The marble doors glided open silently by some unseen mechanism. Probably invisible angels were holding the doors open or something tacky like that. 

A newcomer arrived. Goldie remained steadfastly fixed on her glass, but she had other senses. Hm. Boots on the floor. Well worn, by the sound of it. There was a gust of cold air when the door had opened. Wherever — or whenever — the bar’s doors opened to was nearly freezing. And there was a crunch and squeak to each footfall. Rubber soles on slushy snow. And a smell like chocolate and peppermint. The soft jingle of bells.

The newcomer sat at the stool previously occupied by the mummy.

“Well fancy meeting you here, Red,” Goldie said before she looked up to see Santa Claus himself, pensively tugging at his beard.

He did a double take when he looked up. Goldie smiled grimly, one hand on the bar between them.

“Oh. Oh, ah, Miss O’Gilt,” he said in that tremulous voice of his. “I didn’t know you were… here.”

Goldie shrugged breezily. “Looted the wrong temple and now they want me to work off some community service. Props to them for knowing where my skills would best be put to use, I suppose.”

“Is there a… right temple to loot?” Claus said, aghast.

“The best ones are the ones where there’s nobody around to say ‘hey you, put down that sacred idol’ but occasionally I do like to challenge myself.”

“Oh my.”

“Looks like I don’t make your nice list this year, eh Kringle?”

“And it’s only 364 days until next Christmas,” Claus said. “You work fast.”

Goldie pursed her beak. “Right. It’s Christmas. Looks like I owe a few people a backlog of gifts.”

“I’ve already seen to Dickie’s gift,” Scrooge said. “A new guitar, I believe.”

“Well, much obliged,” Goldie said with a nod. “So, what can I get you?”

“Hm? Oh, well, ah, yes. This is a bar, isn’t it?”

“I certainly hope so.”

“Ah, ha ha. Eggnog. Extra… yes, make it extra rum.”

“Oh, look at you, Red,” Goldie said as she turned to retrieve her ingredients. “Hitting the hard stuff.”

In swift, nimble motions, she had a glass ready and poured. And as a finishing touch she produced whole nutmeg from a dispenser, plugged it into a handheld grinder and topped the eggnog off with freshly powdered nutmeg. She placed the glass in front of Santa.

“Oh, ah, thank you,” he said.

“ _Skål_!” Roared the vikings next to them. One raised an axe in their direction.

“Ah,” Claus looked at them, slightly taken aback before recovering and raising his glass towards them. “Yes, indeed. Cheers.”

Apparently bolstered by the encouragement, he downed the eggnog like a shot glass. Which… it wasn’t, so it took a while and he came up gasping. “Another,” he choked out.

“Goodness,” Goldie said mildly. “And I thought those spring breakers were wild.” 

Claus harumphed. “You’re making fun of me.”

“Maybe.”

“Whatever happened to not kicking a person when they’re down?”

“Seems to me like that’s the best time to kick a person,” Goldie said as she mixed another drink. 

“Hmph. Is that why Scrooge likes you?”

 _Ah_. Yes. He did say it was the day after Christmas, didn’t he?

“Stopped by McDuck manor again, eh Red?”

“Thought we’d actually patch things up this time. And it feels like we did. But it’s still the same old Scrooge.” He said into his drink.

A maudlin patron was hardly new to Goldie, and she even occasionally found it in her to lend a sympathetic ear. Of course they didn’t usually whine about her boyfriend. Or if they did, it was in the context of losing quite a lot of money or a fantastic business deal to him.

“— and you know the worst part?” Claus continued. “Maybe he did get it in that moment, but I just know that the next day he’s going to be the same miser. Still, I think we’ve made progress, I really do. Mended some bridges. So why do I still feel like… oh, I don’t know, dash it all.”

He tipped the drink up to his mouth.

Poor Kringle, Goldie thought. What do you do when an immortal keeps barking up the wrong tree? And it’s Scrooge. A tree that belongs to _her_. And he thinks it’s a Christmas tree when she knows that it’s a gnarled old barren oak that’s had more than a few lightning strikes in its time. You’d think an old man who makes it his business to see who’s naughty and who’s nice wouldn’t have this problem, but everyone has a blind spot. Santa Claus wasn’t a bad person — by definition — but that didn’t mean he was a good judge of his own desires.

“I don’t make it a habit of airing out my laundry but you do know that Scroogie is _mine_ right? Doesn’t seem very nice of you,” Goldie said.

Santa’s mouth fell open. “Oh. Oh, is he? Did… you two make up?”

And there was the problem, really. He thought that the two of them had something to make up for. Well, Goldie had to allow that they did speak a few things out loud that probably could’ve stood to be spoken earlier.

“I suppose in a way. We found a fountain of youth together —”

“Goodness, there’s another one?”

“— then we lost it. But then I suppose we… cleared up a few ambiguities between us in the process.”

“Oh. I see. Well. This is terribly embarrassing.” Claus wrung his mittened hands.

Goldie shrugged. She didn’t begrudge the few hangers on that Scrooge largely cultivated by accident. Their lives were long. She knew that there was only one person for him, in the end. And he knew it was the same for her. Even before they made any spoken declarations, they knew that. There was no fear of competition there.

“Don’t sweat it, Red.”

Santa slumped onto the bar. “You know, it is quite hard to find someone who is immortal and… agreeable.”

Goldie arched an eyebrow. Scrooge was neither of those things, unless the old fossil’s been holding out. “And that’s what you think he is? Agreeable?”

“Hmph. Ha. Ha ha. No, I suppose not.” Claus sighed. “Why do I do this to myself?”

“You hate to be alone and Scrooge is familiar,” Goldie said. And really, it was a miracle that this man got her to discuss this much about relationships. But she supposed that’s what Christmas is known for. Or… the day after Christmas. “But you’re looking for something that’s just not there, Red.”

“But what does he see in _you_?”

And okay, that might have gotten a bit too personal, and it showed in the flash of annoyance that Goldie did not hide from Claus, who blanched. Goldie leaned in.

“Look, Nick, you want to know what makes us different? For the past week, I’ve used my community service here to case this joint. Size up the regulars. You know what I found out? There are currently three people in here who I’d really like to steal from. Actually, four, now that you’re here.”

“I left my time-freezing star back home,” Claus said with a trembling beard.

Goldie shrugged. “Okay, so back to three. But also? That’s good to know. Thanks for the tip, Red.” She winked at him when he grew even paler. A real feat for a polar bear. “Anyway,” Goldie continued, “two of those people are impossible to steal from. Gods, right? But the third? Ah, the third is going to make taking this job worthwhile.”

“Oh,” Claus said, fascinated despite himself. “Who is it?”

“Yeah I’m not telling you that. The point I’m making is: do you do this? Do you walk into a place where you’re trusted and think ‘who am I going to rob blind?’”

“Absolutely not!”

“Well there you have it. That’s the difference between us. One difference, at least.”

“He hates stealing from people!”

“Hm. Well. I have opinions about that but we’re straying from the point. _He_ may or may not like stealing, but he’s a petty little bastard who likes people who are vicious, mean-minded desperadoes who are always looking for the next opportunity. It keeps him on his toes. And Nick? That’s not you, and sometimes wanting something isn’t going to be enough.”

Goldie stepped back and returned to placidly cleaning a glass. “I may never make your nice list,” she said casually. “But I’ll never need to.” She shot him a wink.

Santa closed his mouth, which had been hanging open. “Goodness,” he said.

“Find yourself someone who likes you for you, Red. I hate giving relationship advice, so listen when I say that. Scroogie? He’s wasted on you.”

“You… uh…” He looked down at his drink. “You make a very good eggnog,” he mumbled.

“I’m an excellent bartender.”

“You know, I wondered about that,” Claus said, almost conversationally. He seemed less tense now. Perhaps some of what Goldie had said actually reached him. “I know you by reputation. Most of us do. But I did not know you were a bartender. I thought you were more of a general… proprietress. Managing people, arranging entertainment, scheduling and that sort of thing.”

Goldie inclined her head slightly. “As a hostess I have to fill a lot of roles. All for the single purpose of keeping prospectors and fugitives in good spirits. This place might be a swanky testament to the hubris of gods, but it’s still my job to make it a home away from home. That means a warm fire, good drink, a happy song… or a sad one.” She gestured towards the ghosts wailing around the piano. “If that’s what a fella needs.”

“Perhaps a few words of cold truth as well?” Claus said ruefully.

“If that’s what a fella needs,” Goldie drawled.

Claus laughed mirthlessly. Still, he raised his glass to her. “Perhaps we’re not all that different.”

“We are very different,” Goldie insisted. “You have only one role. A very specific one: you are a nice person. Go find someone who appreciates that.”

Behind him, the entrance doors glided open gracefully. Then they were slammed back against the wall as two green, scaly hands as stop signs pushed them open with force.

“Ho there!”

Jormungandr was a large snake… creature… person. He filled the room with both his presence and voice. He was not a regular as such, he preferred his smoky mead halls with its fire pits and thatched roofs and impromptu wrestling matches. But even he needed a change in scenery.

He waved to his left and his right as if greeting adoring supporters. And there were a few, judging by the sporadic cheers he drew. There were a huddle of Mayan gods around the lone television with a basketball game who were evidently fans of his. Quetzalcoatl clapped their wings together and started up a small wind storm.

When he bellied up to the bar next to Santa Claus, the vikings at the end of the bar all raised their drinks and weapons. “ _Skål_!”

“ _Skål_ , my brothers and sisters!” Jormungandr shouted before turning to the bartender. “Goldie O’Gilt! Still here I see!”

“Biding my time, Jorie. The usual?” She had his mead horn ready by the time he had crossed the bar.

“Hah! You know me well! To another victory in the ring! _Skål_!”

“ _Skål_!” Chorused the vikings.

He took a deep draught, downing it quickly. Goldie was equally quick in refilling it.

When Jormungandr nodded to her, he took note of Santa Claus, small next to him. Goldie never really thought of Santa Claus as small, but then she never saw him next to the World-Destroyer. He had a way of making himself the biggest person in the room no matter who else was there.

“Julenissen in the flesh!” Jormungandr bellowed. “A rare sight in these parts, yes? Don’t see much of you. Well met!”

“Hah, yes, well. I’m afraid we’ve never had much occasion to meet.” Claus said, looking away nervously. “What with the, ah, world destroying.”

“Mm.” Jormungandr scratched his chin. “I suppose not. Though I have always thought we are of a kind!”

“Oh, I don’t know about that…”

“We are both men of the people! We both give them what they desire, no? You with the presents and me with the complete annihilation!” 

“Well that’s not any way to get off my naughty list,” Claus chided. Goldie’s beak screwed up into a grimace. Maybe it was in her own head but there was a certain… something in his expression. Was he?

“I may have a few objections to your application of the concepts of naughty and nice, Nisse!” Jormungandr gestured with his freshly filled horn, mead sloshing over the edges. “It is… ah, what do you say? An imposition of one culture upon another?”

“Well I say, that is a fascinating perspective to take. I am, of course, always interested — professionally — of course, with how I am perceived in other cultures.” He _was_. Maybe Goldie didn’t give Claus enough credit as a smooth operator.

“Ehh… I might be pursuaded to exchange perspectives, yes. In exchange for a drink, of course.”

They whiled away the time in a conversation of cultural relativism. Claus even seemed to be holding his own, if Goldie were any judge. Or at least he wasn’t being immediately dismissed by Jormungandr. In time she left them to make her rounds, checking in with the other patrons. Eventually, after some time, she moved to make note of that parcel at the foot of one of the alchemists. It was round and flat, wrapped in brown paper and taped up generously. When she approached their table, one of the nervous gray men nudged the parcel further under the table. She smiled at them serenely, asked if their drinks needed refreshing and returned to the bar when she was told no.

“And that is why,” Jormungandr said with finality, “all men seek their obliteration. Whether it be on the battlefield or, well, by me.” He gestured to himself, broad chest bare and rippling with muscle.

“A compelling argument,” Claus said, his eyes sliding occasionally downward before he caught himself. “But I am not of the opinion that mortals are so nihilistic, why — oh gracious, look at the time.”

“Hm,” Jormungandr said. “It appears we’ve both allowed ourselves to get engrossed in our differing views.”

“Ah, yes, yes,” Claus said, nodding eagerly. “Why, I haven’t had a conversation this involved since… oh dear. This is Scrooge all over again, isn’t it?”

Goldie rolled her eyes.

“Scrooge?” Jormungandr said. “What does the old goat have to do with this? 

“Getting over a bad breakup,” Goldie said.

“Miss O’Gilt!” Claus said.

“Ah, I see,” said Jormungandr. He scratched his chin. “Hm… hard to believe the giver of gifts falling for a heel.”

“Well, he seemed nice.”

“Ah, you thought he was a face but he let the mask slip, did he? An old angle but some of the greatest start that way! An excellent set up to an epic blow off, but also a one-way ticket to some cheap heat if not handled correctly.”

Claus looked at Goldie, uncomprehending. Goldie shrugged.

“Well, I’m not quite sure what all that means, but…” Claus started.

“You bought his kayfabe and didn’t realize you were dealing with a hollywood. It happens, but never fear! You can always mount a comeback my friend!”

“I don’t really understand any of that but it sounds fascinating,” said Claus.

“Ha! Then we have much to learn! If you’d accompany me, that is.” Jormungandr offered his elbow. Claus took it, curling one hand around a bicep.

“Oh my,” said Santa Claus.

Goldie arched her eyebrow, but watched them turn to leave. It wasn’t the strangest thing she had seen happen, but it was a good effort. “Don’t do anything naught, you two,” she said.

“Not to worry, O’Gilt!” Jormungandr said. “He has his list and I have my reputation, after all.”

“Wonderful,” Goldie said to herself. Well, if nothing else were to happen tonight, she supposed one productive thing came about. Their departure left a silence that enveloped the bar. Hard to make anything seem lively or boisterous immediately after the absence of Jormungandr. She checked the time. If anything she had learned during her nights here was correct…

The doors burst open again.

“You!”

Goldie smiled. Right on schedule.

Zeus had returned to complain about the drinks again, like he did every night. And he was never the kind to leave an argument unfinished. He _was_ the type to get dragged out of a bar by his own son just long enough for him to come up with a rebuttal.

The top god of the Greek pantheon marched in a huff towards her. Selene and Storkules would be by to drag him back again so time was of the essence.

“I demand that you refund me for that watered down swill you served earlier before I smite thee!”

Goldie sighed. She only ever served the best stuff. She literally had no choice. This place had been stocked with gods in mind. Still he found a reason to complain?

It made her feel a lot better about stealing from him, which was the one thing he hadn’t noticed due to all the manufactured slights he imagined she had committed against him.

All around them, various gods and immortals diverted their attention to their cups. It was best not to get involved in a Zeus tantrum.

That made it easy for Goldie when she produced Zeus’ scepter from under the bar. It was heavy and gold and the knobby end was wreathed in a crown of lightning. The sight of it stopped Zeus in his tracks. He gasped.

“You _dare_ —”

“Always,” Goldie said, smiled, pointed the scepter and smote the daylights out of one of the vikings at the end of the bar.

The scepter emitted a blinding flash that strobed through the entire room. It was followed by a calamitous thunder crash that shattered glasses and brought bottles tumbling from their shelves. Goldie felt it pummel her hearing, leaving a ringing sound in her ears. Then a viking was on the floor stricken with a smoldering streak with smoke rising from it.

The viking stirred and moaned. Goldie immediately dropped the scepter and smiled at Zeus, who was quivering with rage.

But not nearly as much rage as the viking’s comrades.

A berserker with an axe in each hand jumped atop the bar. “FIIIIIIIGHT!” the warrior bellowed with a roar that cut through the echoing aftershock of thunder, before leaping on top of Zeus with both axes raised.

And when one viking fights, all of them do. And they are not discriminating about where they land their blows. Soon the entire bar was involved in the melee. Goldie slipped into the chaos and, determined to keep a good thing going, seized a barstool by its legs and brought it down, shattering it on the head of a vampire that had been minding their own business. Then she took one of the broken legs and whipped it across the bar. It landed squarely in the gloomy tooth fairy’s drink. The tooth fairy wailed at the indignity and pulled out a savage-looking serrated dagger from her gown.

It had taken Goldie by surprise, when she first learned that tooth fairies always went around armed. Just went to show that you never know a person until you fight them. 

Goldie vanished from sight before anyone could pin the blame on her and soon the fight was growing out of control.

From there the night got… very exciting. After a few close calls she managed to get in range of the antsy alchemists, huddled together not quite sure what to do and where to go and… relieved them of their burden, unnoticed.

The bar doors glided serenely open for Goldie when she left with their parcel. It closed on the fight, their struggles muffled behind the thick doors and walls.

Goldie tore through the brown paper and she was met with a mirror smooth black void. She grinned into it, and her reflection grinned back. The obsidian mirror of John Dee. A priceless artifact among alchemists, and a handy tool for communicating with demons. Or it would just look nice hanging up on her wall. Goldie wasn’t quite sure what she was going to do with this. She just wanted it.

And sometimes wanting something actually was enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Is Jormungandr good for Santa Claus or is he just another toxic relationship? Look I don't care I just want the big red man to make out with the big snake man


End file.
